


Mirage

by queerofthedagger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Death Eaters, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger
Summary: Regulus wants to receive the dark mark, it's not like he doesn't have a choice. Or does he?





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me spending way too much time thinking about Regulus - I hope you enjoy it!

Regulus is standing outside of the sitting room of Grimmauld Place but it has never felt less like home than it does right now. He can hear the low murmur of voices from inside but can't make out the words and he tries to blend it out, focusing on the way the shadows flicker in the dim light of the gas lamps. The portraits in the corridor are silently watching him and he can hear rain platter against the window at the other end.

Grimmauld Place has never been particularly homey but right now it feels downright eerie.

He tries to remember that he wants this, that he has waited for what is going to happen for so long now, but every time his concentration slips, Sirius' words return like a whisper to him, and the longer he is standing here alone the harder it becomes to silence the doubts.

He grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms; it's not only annoying because Sirius is wrong, _has_ to be wrong, but it's also dangerous, to him and his whole family. Besides, it's not like he can back out now. His mother was very clear on what she's expecting of him, and contrary to Sirius, he has nowhere to run.

He jumps when the door across from him opens with am ominous creak but quickly composes himself when Bellatrix grins at him in that slightly unhinged way that she has and takes a silent, deep breath.

"We're ready for you, little cousin," she says in a sing-song voice and he attempts a smile. He wants this. He _does_, it's not only because his parents expect him to. It’s not like he doesn’t have a choice, right?

He follows her inside and swallows at the scene; the Dark Lord is sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace, the spot normally reserved for his father or Arcturus when he visits, and around 15 people in black robes stand in a semi-circle behind him. He only belatedly realises that the chair is different; it's more like a throne, really, ornaments of snakes gracing the dark armrests and bigger than any other chair in the room.

The lights are dimmed in here as well, only candles and the fire illuminating the scenery, flickering and throwing dancing shadows, making it all the creepier.

He absent-mindedly thinks that the reverent positions his parents are holding, standing to the side with their heads bowed, somehow clash with all the pride and superiority they beat into him and Sirius their whole life but quickly shoves the thought behind his Occlumency shields.

He itches to look at the Dark Lord, curious beyond belief, but he knows that he has to keep his head down. Bellatrix's nails are digging harshly into his shoulder, but he welcomes the pain, the sensation grounding against the rising panic in his chest.

"Don't worry if you cry little cousin, we all did," Bella mumbles into his ear before she pushes him down to his knees and he swallows again, keeping his eyes trained on the ground in front of him. He wants this, wanted this, _he wants_ -

"Hello Regulus," a soft voice above him murmurs, a slight tilt to it and a hiss at the end of his name, followed by a finger under his chin.

He feels like he would have lifted his head even if he didn't want to and meets red, terrifying eyes. He doesn’t get time to be afraid though, already feeling the brush against his Occlumency shields.

He has no idea how long the Dark Lord is rummaging through his memories, only that the one thing he worked hours on hiding stayed hidden and that sweat is pooling at his temples and he's panting when the man finally lets go of his chin.

"Very well, you seem as devoted to our cause as my dear Bella told me. You'll be one of my youngest, are you aware?"

"Yes, my Lord," he answers, relieved when his voice doesn't crack despite the lump in his throat.

His mind is in a disarray after the long attack on it and his heart is still beating too fast in his chest, the voice that sounds so much like Sirius louder now that he's concentrating less on keeping it silent.

He wants this. _He wants this, right_?

Does he?

"So quick to address me appropriately. Good, I am satisfied."

He prevents himself from wincing when the Dark Lord pulls his wand, unable to take his eyes off the bone-white wood.

"Give me your arm," the Dark Lord says softly, almost fondly, like he overheard some parents speak to their children when they got hurt in the park at the other side of the road from Grimmauld Place, those summers when he sat at his window and watched them, longing for his own parents to play with him, just once.

He banishes that thought as well, it wouldn't be a good idea to appear hesitant right now, and rolls his left sleeve up, offering his skin up to the Dark Lord who trails long fingers over it.

And that's what he's doing, isn't it? He's offering himself up, his life, to the man in front of him and his goals; and he wants this.

_Does he?_

He flinches when the tip of the wand is pressed against his forearm and can hear several people chuckle.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, this will only hurt a little," the Dark Lord murmurs as if this is a joke, but before he can think about it further, there's a hissing noise.

_He doesn't want this_, he thinks, before blinding, hot pain curls over his forearm and spreads through his body, overtaking his mind and his thoughts. It's worse than the one Crucio his mother graced him with when he tried to stop her from torturing Sirius into insanity, he can feel it twisting and pulling at him, like Fiendfyre racing through his veins, like acid burning his skin and his very being.

When it's finally over he sags forward, the cold wooden floor a relief against the heated skin on his forehead and he only now notices that his face is wet with tears.

Still, the only coherent thought he manages is; I don't want this, I didn't want this, please, _I don't want this._

**Author's Note:**

> I might add on to this at some point. If you read my fic Veritas vos Liberabit, this piece fits into the story. :)


End file.
